My Collar
by Euphoric Lolita
Summary: [POST PHASE 3] At 50, Murdoc can't seem to figure out what his life is missing. He thought with fame, eternal life, and notoriety, everything was ideal. But when his hookups start going stale, a friend tries to guide him down a different path to help him discover himself in his older age, and in doing so... he realizes his band isn't too far away. Muds/Noods. Hard sex/kinkplay.


**(A/N: I'm back, bitches! I haven't sat down to write a story in so long, but I need a break from everything. Too many big projects, so I wanted to tap back in to my writing roots.**

 **So, it's a probability that there are going to be some lore details screwed up.**  
 **I. Am trying. Mah. Damnedest.**

 **Keeping up with lore around Plastic Beach is a bit tricky, but I'm going to do what I can. Remember that this is at the beginning of Phase 4. And now, without much else to say, enjoy!)**

Ch.1

The sounds of fake ecstasy and empty passion had begun to die down, replaced with shallow breathing. Murdoc Niccals pushed himself off the petite 30-something bent over in front of him, and rested his back against his pillows. In two swift motions, he reached down, slid his condom off, and tossed it at the wastebasket in the corner of his Winnebago's bedroom. It didn't make it. It simply laid on the rim, the full end inside the bin. Murdoc didn't bother to get up and adjust it.

"That… was fuckin' brilliant," the woman said, rolling onto her back. A hand covered in bright red nails slid through her brunette locks, while the other pulled the misplaced cup of her push-up bra down.

"Yep…"

The bassist didn't bother to comment. What, did she really need a synopsis of how he enjoyed the sex with her, some random bird he met at a bar? It was the same case every single time: drink until he stopped feeling anything, flirt up a woman, plug his fame if she didn't already know who he was (as if that was ever the case), and take her home to fuck her brains out. However in recent years, Murdoc felt like sex was starting to turn… empty. It didn't help that he was getting older either, which he acknowledged eyeing the bottle of Viagra lazily placed on a shelf that he dreaded having to use someday.

He got up as the woman laid there, reaching for his underwear and jeans and pulling them both up. One clawed hand pulled out a lighter and cigarette from his back pocket and he lit it. "Listen, Becca-"

"Bella." The woman looked at him with an incredulous expression, as if insulted he forgot the name of her like he had known it for years.

"Wotevuh'. I think it's time for you to clear outta here." He placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it. "Gonna head to sleep shortly."

Bella tilted her head in confusion. "Huh? You don't think I can spend the night with ya?"

Murdoc sighed, knowing just how rude it was to do so but not giving a damn. He had heard this question hundreds of times before, from hundreds of other women. He never balked. She was no separate case.

"Hate to break it to ya, luv, but I didn't bring ya back 'ere to snuggle up t' me after hooking up. I can keep myself plenty warm on my own. You had your fun. I had mine. Now be a good bird and git."

Offense overcame the woman in no time at all, and she swiftly pulled her dress back up from where it rested in a crumpled ring around her waist. "Figures." She grabbed for her heels and keys to her car, turning to the bassist. "You rockstars are all trash to women. Just a hit-n'-go."

Murdoc grumbled his response as she stormed out, flinching as he heard his raven Cortez squawk at the women. What did she expect - marriage after one fuck? He was never one for courtesy, or manners at all. He hit it. He quit it. And now, he was going to drink himself into another numbed stupor.

"C'mere, mate," he called to his black-feathered companion, and stuck out one olive-green arm to accommodate him. Cortez chirped, nipping at his wing before making his way over to master. Cortez was one of the only things, other than his band, that Murdoc had missed since being released from Dungeon Abbey. That, and all the booze he could get his claws onto to numb the chaos in his own head. The women stayed the same. As did the world around him, it seemed.

But Murdoc? He was changing, and not in a way he favored. Sure, now he had an ability to take on new music projects, work on a new album even, but one look to the mirror reminded him of how things really were. His skin, once a tan complexion, was replaced with a sickly green. His once mismatched eyes were now more black, the red of his one iris darkened to match the other. His nails were painted black and tapered into claws. Okay, maybe he didn't mind that. But the growing need for more alcohol to get drunker, the Viagra. When had he needed that bloody stuff?

"Sweet Satan, this is wot I get," he told himself, remembering once upon a time when he had traded his soul for everlasting life and musical success. His free hand reached for a bottle of whiskey that had begun to drip onto the soiled carpet. He took hold and brought it to his lips in a swig. Cortez squawked.

"No, no, not for you," he scolded. However, his eyes stayed on his reflection in the mirror. He thought it was a good idea when he had installed it – to pull on the hair of the women he managed to seduce into his "loveshack on wheels" and make them stare at him through the reflection as he fucked their insides raw from behind. But now, it served as a reminder. Haha, getting old, ya old git, it mocked.

Murdoc's friend could read him well and decided to go back to his original perch, relieving the bassist in order to let him fall back onto the mattress. It squeaked in protest against his body weight.

Aw'right, wot have I done with my life? Why not now, post-coitus and mid-drink, to take inventory of your life? Possess eternal life: check. Own the world's biggest rock band: check. Wealth and fame: check and check. Get outta that fuckin' prison to keep makin' music: bloody check. And the Boogieman hoppin' off my tail: Satan be praised, check. Wot am I missin'?

To the naked eye, it would seem like a simple answer: nothing. Wealth, notoriety, colleagues that were beyond talented to work with, and all the women he could screw. Sure, he wasn't in the best physical shape of his life, but that never stopped groupies from hanging off him like they were in heat and he oozed pheromones. He was completely in control of everything and could adjust or change things at the snap of his fingers. There had to be something.

But now wasn't the time. Especially if dwelling on things made his eyes dart back to that shameful bottle of pills he needed to keep it up. Maybe he could've handled Bella's trip down from orgasm better – birds often stumbled out when he kicked them out, even if they weren't under the influence of whatever Murdoc was having. And hell, maybe he could've spent that night in, being productive instead of resorting back to his normal, hedonistic habits.

Fuck it. He'd consider things when he was sober.


End file.
